


Quercus amabit

by blacktail_chorus



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Canon Era, Gen, Reincarnation, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-02
Updated: 2019-04-02
Packaged: 2020-01-01 04:07:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18328313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blacktail_chorus/pseuds/blacktail_chorus
Summary: The oak is the king's tree, promised from birth.





	Quercus amabit

**Author's Note:**

> Genus _Quercus_ (oak), species _Q. amabit_ (he will love)

_Don't be afraid._

Arthur breathed in the warm wind rustling the leaves above him as Merlin's last words echoed in his head. He worked his jaw, staring into the gloom. His hand twitched, and he reached out suddenly to touch a tree's stout trunk. He drew back as though it burned.

This tree--a sturdy country oak with a modest spread of branches and a full flush of dark green, palm-sized leaves--was as tall as Camelot's main gate and only an hour old.

\---

 _Don't be afraid._

Merlin looked Arthur in the eye and let go of his arm, raising his own to meet the terror marching towards them. Huge, charcoal-black forms with flaming crowns resolved into trees: great, animated trees, with twisted roots thumping and dragging across the rocky ground--trees striding in ragged formation over the ridge from the Darkling Woods, aimed unerringly at Camelot.

The oak and rowan on the slope corrupted as the enchanted army passed among them. Most burned and died, but some awoke, shrugging out of the ground to join the horde.

 _Don't be afraid._

Merlin... stopped them. With arms flung wide and golden threads that radiated through the living trees around them, he formed a bulwark that held the monsters back. His fierce light grew until Arthur shut his eyes and covered his face to keep from being blinded. Crackles and lashings whipped through the air and Arthur's nose filled with billowing smoke. The earth shook each time a trunk crashed to the ground.

Arthur's eyes watered from the smoke and the light and the betrayal surrounding him. From his helplessness as secrets long-kept played out while he could only cower in their midst.

When it was over, he dropped his arm from his face. Night was coming on now, but the flicker of a thousand dying fires cast enough light for him to see. The ridge looked like the aftermath of wildfire and windstorm both, with churned earth and splayed, blackened trunks lying among broken, standing trees. All around them, though, was green. Grasses and low brush poked from the soil and as Arthur kept watch, he swore he could see them _grow_.

Arthur spun around. Merlin was nowhere to be seen. But just there, where he'd been standing, was a tall, handsome, and entirely new oak tree. The light in its branches could have been a trick of the fires, but somehow Arthur didn't think so.

He touched it, first with a jab and then with a grip, pressing ungloved skin to rough silver bark. It felt like wood. Like a tree. There was no spark or sizzle or thrum of recognition. He brought his other hand up, grasping, and curled his fingers into the trunk. Fragments rubbed off beneath his thumbs.

He exhaled. A wind picked up, the kind that signaled storms. It was gentle but steady, caressing new growth as it scoured the burn, and Arthur knew the rain would put the fires out for good. It would help the forest grow.

He called out for Merlin once before he turned away.

\---

Seasons came and passed, and Arthur returned to the oak after a year and a day.

He left his retinue sleeping at their hunting camp, sneaking off before sunrise. He had not been without his knights since Merlin's disappearance, a concession born from the frank realization of his fragility and his duty to his people as their king. But this journey he had to take alone.

It was the height of summer and birds called raucously from their perches. Unmuffled by stone walls, their croaks and titters carved out their little kingdoms, and those with sweet voices serenaded their mates. Mice scampered through leaf litter on unknowable errands and a bat swooped in front of Arthur's face on its way home to roost. Arthur pressed on, wrapped in his rough blue cloak, following familiar terrain until the ridge climbed suddenly before him.

The land had been entirely transformed. Instead of a recovering wasteland, the slope was covered with a hundred-year wood. Each tree stood as calmly as time in the light of the dawning day.

The oak, though--Merlin's oak--stood out. No broader or larger than any of the others, it still drew Arthur's gaze. He went to it at once.

Much had happened in the year since he'd last stood in this place. He had come into his own, in a way, leading Camelot with a fair and judicious hand. Magic was legal now, and Morgana had gone quiet--though Arthur had his suspicions about the full-crowned hawthorn he'd found in a clearing near the citadel. And so Arthur had settled into his birthright as a bringer of peace and growing prosperity.

Yet as he looked to the years ahead, planning land usage and knights' training and the long-term strategy of affairs of the court, he had no peace within himself. 

Because of all the unconscionable things Merlin had done in his life, surely the worst was leaving Arthur behind.

Once again, Arthur lifted a hand to touch the bark. Still wood. Still a tree. His stomach turned, and the words waiting on his tongue crashed against clenched teeth. His face grew hot and he rammed the trunk with his fist, gasping as his eyes filled and his throat thickened and the first sob rose from his chest.

A doe met his gaze when he finally looked up after all the tears were spent. She walked with him, a bit apart, as he made his way back to the camp.


End file.
